


Easy There, Oedipus

by youngerdrgrey



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: F/M, pregnancy fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8344267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngerdrgrey/pseuds/youngerdrgrey
Summary: alternatively titled, how to get away with impregnating your law professor and secretly parenting your child; or moments from a fic unwritten wherein Annalise and Wes fall into the abyss together. 
— takes place in season 3 (but also fuck season 3, you feel)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _// SPOILERS FOR EARLY SEASON 3_ (anything up to 3x05 is fair game)

.

.

**i. or how the nicknames begin**

 

“I guess I can’t call you waitlist anymore.”

Wes rolls his eyes, but it’s easy, light in a way he wishes everything else could be. “Yeah, just don’t start calling me ‘Daddy,’ and we’re fine.”

Connor laughs and slaps Wes’s shoulder. “Of course not!” His hand stays to really drive home his crowning moment. “Oedipus has a better ring to it.”

.

.

 **ii.** **or how it all begins**

 

Months earlier, on the guest bed, with her hands braced on either side of her and him staring up from between her knees. He trails kisses along her thighs and reaches for the pants he kicked off when they got in the room. He has to break contact with her skin long enough to seek out his wallet, and when he does, there's only money inside. (Which, of course there is. He hasn’t kept anything in there since he and Meggy broke up.) He turns back to Annalise, ready to apologize or ask if she has anything or, he doesn’t know, say something really, but she pulls away from him.

Scoots back further on the bed so her legs come together while her head dips behind the shadows of the room.

“Don’t bother, I can’t — I’m not —“

Her sentences die on her lips. Fall flat as her hands come to her stomach. She can’t what?

He opens his mouth to ask, but she glances over, pleads with her eyes for him to get what she’s saying. There’s something off about them, something kind of hollow like she’s never quite found a way to let go of what should be there. There where, in her eyes? In her stomach? In—

Oh.

Not her stomach. Further. She can’t — she means she won’t get pregnant. She probably can’t get pregnant.

(She describes herself as barren. Empty. As dead inside as Sam is out. It’s not a visual, or a conversation, for a moment like this, so she holds her tongue like she does all the memories.)

Wes lifts up so they’re level again. “Annalise?” Her eyes drop to the bedspread but not before he sees them start to line. Her jaw ticks to the side a bit, and he cups a hand to her face the way she always does for him. Gently nudges her face back to neutral while his thumb brushes at her lips.

He tries her name another time. “Annalise. Look at me. Please, look at me.”

A tear slips out, and her whole face trembles beneath his touch. “You shouldn’t be with me. This is a mistake. This is an awful, stupid—“

“Hey.” The bass in his voice cuts her off. Gets enough of a scare for her to glance his way involuntarily. He catches the gaze though, but he stumbles over the right words to say. Like, this isn’t stupid; stupid is him not bringing over his clothes once he started spending all his time here and just rewashing the same three shirts and hoping nobody noticed. Or stupid was him trying to keep a relationship with Meggy afloat while he kept falling into moment after moment with Annalise. Awful was that break up, saying goodbye to someone who really was good for him but not what he needed. Awful is… awful is looking at this woman in front of him, this amazing, resilient, gorgeous woman and knowing that she doesn’t know he sees that. That she can’t even fathom that he wants her as she is, pretty much unconditionally.

He needs words. Something to say to convey that he doesn’t care, that he’s sorry she’s been made to feel broken when she spends her whole life mending others, but, he’s empty. Flush out of reassurances and rightful confessions. Besides, he doubts she wants to hear him profess anything right now. It’d be like he’s just saying it to get back to the moment.

But fuck the moment. Fuck protection and the expectations that everyone puts on them. And fuck everyone actually. And fuck the fact that he still doesn’t know what to say to make any of this better for her. She’s lived with this for a while, and maybe it’s his age that brings back that sting, or maybe it’s her newfound sobriety, or just the fact that a casual job offer over a year ago turned into the two of them in the room he’s basically completely moved into.

So fuck words. Except for this.

“If you think, for a second, that this is awful, I’m really not doing this right.”

Her laugh seems almost ripped out of her. An unwitting chuckle that matches his own. And then she laughs again, and the glimpse of her teeth screams relief in a way he wants all of them to experience.

He motions to her lips, watches them as he licks his own. “Can I?”

She hesitates. Her own internal monologue probably racing through every reason she should say no. Why she should push him away. (He’ll regret this.) Why she should go back to her own room. (Because she has a room; she’s a grown woman hooking up in her guest bedroom.) Or maybe, all she’s wondering is if this will help her forget that hollowness. Help her remember and retain all the good in her life rather than slipping back to the bad parts.

Whatever she’s thinking, she winds up giving him a smirk. A little grin and a nod that has him surging forward to let his lips say everything he can’t figure out how to say with words. Lets the increasing weight of him on top of her tell her, _I’ve got you, just as you are, for as long as you’ll let me; I’m not going anywhere._ And when she cups his cheeks in her hands, it’s kind of like he hears her reply, hears her saying back, _Thank you; I need you; don’t go._

.

.

.

**iii. or the morning before**

 

He munches down on a bowl of Kix. His laptop bag hangs off the corner of the kitchen island, but he throws it down enough over there to know it’ll stay up long enough for breakfast.

“I’m just saying,” and he gestures with his spoon from one side of the bowl to the other, "the only way to win a case like that would have to be illegal. I don’t understand how we could solve it without Oliver hacking into their system.”

She clicks her tongue at him. Her hair bounces when she turns to face him. He tries to stay focused on her face, but her hips settle against the side of the sink in a way that makes her dress bunch up just a little, and he really needs to stop letting himself do this. Stop fixating on something that can’t happen between them.

“Then you have no imagination. No trust in your classmates—“

“My classmates haven’t even put together that I moved.” He smiles, and she gives one right back to him. "Three weeks ago.”

Of course, three weeks is more or less from the moment he gave up on going back to his apartment after a night over at her place. Around the same time he realized that a break up was inevitable and that maybe Nate wasn’t coming back into Annalise’s life.

She rolls her eyes. “I swear, I picked the wrong bunch of you.”

“Not a chance.” He slurps down the milk left in his bowl. “Who else would do what we’ve done for you? Can you imagine Drake handling your cases? Or handling you, for that matter?”

Her hand flies to her chest in mock outrage, but she doesn’t waste much time holding onto it. Lets it fall back and out in a request for his bowl. “For that, you’re riding your bike to campus.”

He hands it over and snatches up his bag. “That’s fine. Gotta keep up appearances. Pretty soon they’ll think you’re keeping me.” He says it casual, but he waits for her reaction. Watches as she battles between pursing her lips and swallowing a smile.

“If only you were so lucky,” she says. She turns to wash the dish about then, and if he were that lucky, he’d swoop over and press against her. Come up with some dumb excuse about wanting to wash it himself, or he wouldn’t even give an excuse, just siddle up to her and really drive home the meaning of Wednesday mornings.

But he’s not.

He can’t be.

He taps his bag once it’s around him. “If only.” Then slips out the room before he lets that comment settle in. If only.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**iv.**   **or the morning after**

 

He skips breakfast, but only because the Five’s supposed to be meeting in the living room at nine thirty, and he wakes up at nine ten to her coming back into the room with her toothbrush in her mouth.

“You slept in,” she says between brushes. “Thought you’d hear the shower or something. You’re normally such a light sleeper.”

He stretches as languidly as he can. Struggles to keep his eyes open as he does — she brushes away from the sink; what kind of witchcraft and magic keeps her face and build up that put together?

“Guess I was tired,” he says.

She hides her grin with a walk to the bathroom. “The others’ll be here in ten minutes. Don’t give them anything to gossip about.”

“Keep smiling like that, and they’ll know something’s up.”

“I’m not smiling over you,” she says. He pushes off the bed while she spits into the sink. “They found out that—“ The faucet turning on drowns out the rest of her sentence, which gives him the perfect excuse to follow after her. He’s got ten minutes, so maybe there’s enough time to at least see where they stand after last night.

His toes curl against the cool of the bathroom tile. She lifts up from rinsing to see him hovering in the doorway.

“What’d you say?” he asks.

“They found out that the hacking might not be as necessary as we thought. Now get ready. You can hear about it with everyone else.”

He bites down a remark about him being different, about needs needing to be fulfilled and questions that could easily be answered just for him. Bites down on other questions too as she slips back past him and into the guestroom.

She calls after him, “Eight minutes, Wes.”

/

He showers in less than five. Dresses in two, though his undershirt gets a little wet. Honestly, it’s fine. He might smell a little strongly of fresh body wash when everyone else arrives, but the only one to do a double take is Connor, who waves his phone at Wes’s face the moment he sees Wes already seated on the couch.

“Way to text me back last night, asshole,” Connor says.

Michaela nods, fresh on his tail. “We wanted to talk strategy. We literally all messaged you.”

Asher pokes around Michaela to say, “I told them to leave you alone. Obviously, a whole night off means someone had a make up moment in an on call room at the hospital.” Asher bodyrolls his way to the couch as everyone else rolls their eyes. Wes sinks a little deeper into the couch at the insinuation. Asher continues, “Yeah, I know what they’re called. Bet Meggy enjoyed catching up. Ooh, or was it a rando? Because you know those one nights—”

“Mr. Millstone—“ Everyone freezes. Annalise peers over from the doorway of her office. Wes tries to maintain as straight of a face as possible while Annalise says, “Please gossip on your own time, not on mine.”

Asher nods. “Of course. Sorry. Just checking up on my bro here.” Then he glances at Oliver. “Not to be confused with my favorite bro. Ollie’s the best. You know he spent the whole night cracking into that system, like busting it wide open, like—“

“Enough.” Annalise shakes her head and makes her way into the room. She scans their faces, only lingering a few seconds too long on Wes. “Whatever night you had last night, it’s over. You’re not a bunch of kids in the lockerroom, and the only relationship that matters here is ours with our client. I don’t want to hear anything about what you all were doing, or with whom. You hear me?”

(Wes heard her last night, panting in his ear, moaning above, below, and around him, chanting, _Wes, Wes, Wes._ )

He clears his throat and jumps on the group affirmation a beat behind everyone else with a “Loud and clear.”

Annalise nods. “Good. Now, onto our latest discovery."

He tries to listen — really, he does — but he lets himself drift about halfway through Bonnie’s explanation. Everyone else could assume how he’d spent his night as much as they want. They’d never guess it’d been here, with Annalise, or that she’d stayed with him rather than disappearing up to her room like it was nothing. And, okay, he did wake up when she first moved, but the sun had been behind the blinds, and she hadn’t seemed panicked, just like she was ready to start the day. And she talked to him this morning like it was easy, so maybe, maybe this can be something they do. Maybe they can figure out a way to be more than just teacher and student, and be something great instead.

They just work in a way that doesn’t have to be pretty all the time. It doesn’t have to be lies, or centered only in what their lives are after the murders. It can be like this, like coming home and starting anew.

Connor nudges Wes back into the moment. “Damn, you really did have a good night last night.”

Wes channels his energy back to Bonnie and keeps his grin as close to himself as possible. “I’m just… really hungry right now.”

“Just go get a snack. You practically live here anyway.”

He nods. “Practically."

**.**

**.**

**.**

**v.**   **or how things get real**

 

He comes home sooner than expected. He must because Annalise isn’t downstairs, or in her office, or really anywhere he can see. All the lights are off, so the flip of the switch makes his eyes burn. She does this sometimes. Goes out and doesn’t let him know. They’re not together, or anything; and even if they were, it’s not like he has to know where she is at all times. He just kind of needs a moment to process that it’s the night after, and she’s not here to talk about it.

He toes his shoes off at the door. No rug means the dirt sort of chills in the hallway if it’s tracked from room to room. He could sweep before she gets back. Or cook something, even. Though, making dinner would make this seem like a thing. Not that he doesn’t want it to be a thing. It’s not a thing, not a big one, because they’ve been working towards this for longer than he wants to admit. Them hooking up is expected. It’s natural, and felt good, so it doesn’t have to change anything for them.

Pasta does sound good though. Some angel hair. There’s shrimp in the freezer, some garlic and probably a bit of that spaghetti sauce from a few nights back. Then it’s barely even cooking. It’s using up some leftovers, in a totally casual kind of way. It’s nothing.

/

The spaghetti takes thirty minutes to make between the pasta boiling and seasoning the shrimp properly. If he waits to fix a plate, it’s only because he hasn’t properly put his stuff away from the day yet. After he drops off his bag, he can eat, like any other night when he eats before she gets back.

/

He figures that having something to drink with dinner wouldn’t be a bad idea. But there’s not much in way of drinks since he finished the orange juice two days ago. He could pick some up, maybe get a nice sparkling lemonade that could elevate the meal from basic leftovers.

He slips the pans into the oven and turns up the ringer on his phone. He should be back soon. Plus, she’ll message if she needs him.

/

She doesn’t message.

Not while he’s at the store, or on his way back with two sparkling pink lemonades clinking together in his bag.

Not while he sets them in the fridge, or when he cracks one open just because he really would like to drink something other than water in this house.

Or when his stomach growls loud enough that he can’t justify waiting any longer and heats himself up a plate. Or when he fixes a plate for her and puts foil on it so it can wait in the fridge.

Or when he settles onto his bed with reruns of _Brooklyn Nine Nine_  at the lowest possible volume, or when he dozes off during one Halloween special and wakes up to Christmas time.

She doesn’t message him at all. And none of the other lights are on, and the only sound in the whole house is the chief telling Santiago that he doesn’t want presents. Which makes sense, presents are like physicalized versions of expectations. They’re, like, holding onto someone’s hopes for what this relationship means, or could mean, and if the presents don’t match and people have different expectations, then maybe they spend the whole rest of the holiday wondering about whether or not they should’ve just gotten a giftcard and made plans to hang out with Michaela and Oliver rather than spend the whole night alone in a quiet ass house.

/

 **From Wes Gibbins to Prof. Annalise Keating (10:13p)  
** // You’re not avoiding me, are you? because I kind of live in your house and that’s… pretty awkward. [delete] [delete] [delete]

He deletes the text about as soon as he’s done typing it. Too direct, too unassured about his position. He should try for something lighter. They’re both adults. They kind of live together. This can be easy. 

 **From Wes Gibbins to Prof. Annalise Keating (10:13p)  
** // I left you some food in the fridge. For whenever you get back. [delete] [delete] [delete]

The last part makes him seem petty. He’s not waiting up for her. He’s just wondering where she is. He gets to wonder since she’s decided to hide out rather than interact with him. Which, by the way, makes no sense. If anyone’s supposed to hide out after this, it should be him. He’s the one who could lose all his prospects. Everyone would assume he’d gotten this far because of sleeping with his professor, and he’d have to be the one to leave if things went really sour because she’s already proven that she’s basically indestructible at this point. She freaking sued the university to make sure that she could still teach there. She fought every demon that lived in this house to keep it, and now she’s full on avoiding coming home because of him being there.

Or worse.

What’s if she’s drinking?

What if her thinly protected sobriety blew up because of this?

What if— 

 

 **From Wes Gibbins to Bonnie Winterbottom (10:14p)  
** // Have you heard from Annalise?

 **From Bonnie Winterbottom to Wes Gibbins (10:16p)  
** // No.  
// Did you lock yourself out of the house?

He rolls his eyes.

 **From Wes Gibbins to Bonnie Winterbottom (10:18p)  
** // No. It’s nothing, just wondering. 

 **From Bonnie Winterbottom to Wes Gibbins (10:18p)  
** // Keep the wondering to yourself. I’m not her keeper.  
// Tell the rest of your friends that too. 

 **From Wes Gibbins to Bonnie Winterbottom (10:19p)  
** // Will do

Nice to know Bonnie still hates him. He clicks back to the chat with Annalise. 

**From Wes Gibbins to Prof. Annalise Keating (10:20p)**

He needs to say something simple, something that doesn't make him seem needy. Something like….

He sighs. 

 

 **From Wes Gibbins to Prof. Annalise Keating (10:21p)  
** // I got more juice  
// Hey, they’re doing maintenance at my building tomorrow, so I’ll probably head over there to let them in.

 

He drums his fingers along the edge of his phone. Twists it a few times. Sighs again, and then— 

 

 **From Prof. Annalise Keating to Wes Gibbins (10:22p)  
** // Alright. Be sure to lock up after yourself.

 

That’s it? That’s all she has to say?

 **From Wes Gibbins to Prof. Annalise Keating (10:23p)  
** // Of course.

He waits for another response, but she doesn’t say anything else.  Not to him, at least.

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol that finale has me so fucked up. fuck Peter Nowalk and the writing staff for those decisions in the s3 finale and most of s3 tbh.

**vi. how Mama found out (part 1)**

Annalise nearly hangs up the longer the line rings. But she grips her phone tighter in her palm and wills her mother to actually get all the way to the phone before Annalise loses her nerve. She’d called her mother once during her last pregnancy. One time, and by the grace of God, Ophelia missed the call. Gone to church when Annalise wasn’t sure whether or not to keep Sam’s baby and give in to a life she’d lose all control over. She’d wound up leaving a voicemail about sending some donations to the church, didn’t talk to her mom again until after she’d lost the baby. When the accident gave her a good reason not to visit. When some weak part of her wanted to hear her mother’s voice until she remembered what her mom actually sounded like.

Maybe this will be the same way. She’ll get on the phone, and Mama will say something awful, and Annalise’ll choke down her news and replace it with something else, like… how she’d make her way out there for one of the holidays this year. Or how she needed a new cast iron skillet and couldn’t find a decent one this far north, something that’ll really grab her mom’s attention.

Only, her mom — Ophelia — answers the phone already sounding over this conversation. She barely breathes more than a sigh before asking, “Who died this time?” TV nonsense drones on in the background, so at least it seems like she’s alone.

Still, Annalise sputters around her words, pulls the phone tighter and tries to sound above it all. “Mama!” As if there haven’t been bodies all over the town with her name on ‘em.

Ophelia clicks her tongue on her end. “Only other time you called, your husband died. So, who’s dying?”

They’ve been on the phone for two seconds, and Annalise already needs a drink. “No one, Mama. It’s…. It’s more like the opposite.” She tugs open a bag of pretzels to give herself something to do. Grabs a handful but doesn’t start chewing.

“Go on then. Tell me what’s happened.” Her breath picks up. “Ooh, did you and that fine man finally stop fooling around and do something?”

“No, it’s not Nate. It’s—“

She talks over Annalise’s interjection, saying, “Honestly, finally, Anna Mae, I was starting to think—“

“It’s not Nate!”

“Oh, okay. The boy then. The tall one, always following you around.”

“Mama—“

“I told you, that’s what makes sex the best. Someone’s always the student, someone’s always the teacher.” Ophelia chuckles to herself while Annalise reaches for the chip bag on her desk. "But I did like that Nate. Strong man. Big shoulders. Those arms—“

Annalise chomps down on a handful of pretzels. “Mama, please, don’t make me regret calling you.”

Ophelia huffs. “Fine. I’m listening.”

“Good.” Better than that even. If anyone can give Annalise a removed opinion, it’d be her mama. Someone who doesn’t look at Wes and see everything he’s lost and what this could do to him. On one hand, having a child could give him something he hasn’t had in over a decade — someone who could unconditionally care for him. On the other hand, he’s little more than a boy himself, and he still has years of education and training before he’s in a place where he could support another person. Not that he necessarily needs to. Annalise could support this child, if she even wants to keep it. Which… that’s it’s own conversation.

“Anna Mae, I can’t start listening if you don’t talk. Just spit it—“

“I’m pregnant.” It’s the first time she says the words aloud, and all she gets back is silence. A hard won silence, but silence nonetheless. And the world doesn't stop spinning. No one bursts in the room after overhearing. So, Annalise says it a second time. “I’m pregnant. Five weeks along.” The sobriety’s a good thing now, means she stares into an empty glass bookshelf in her office and doesn’t have that temptation. Means she’s not killing another child while it’s inside of her. “I kept getting sick. I thought the withdrawal symptoms were coming back, but…” Soroya had laughed at Annalise’s snacking and queasiness, had said it gave her pregnancy flashbacks, and Annalise had spent three days wondering if it were possible. Three days of crushing metal sounds and beeping hospital machines ringing in her ears. Three days of Sam’s hands on her belly before she’d gone down to the gas station two towns over and bought out their whole supply of tests. Took half the tests in the gas station bathroom right after. Barked at every person who had the gall to knock and rush her. She’s not built to do this again, not now. “Mama, how am I supposed to do this again? I’m not-“ ready, for one, and, honestly, “I’m too old!”

Ophelia breathes out a little, and it’s not a laugh per say. It’s soft, nurturing, like her mama cradles the phone just to let the air out. Her little cracked hands circling around it, pulling it about as close as she wants to pull her daughter in.

“Baby, you’re never too old for things to change.” Mama pats on something. Then she actually does chuckle. “I’ll say the same thing I say to everybody else. 'I raised my babies; don’t got enough time for everybody else’s.’"

Annalise chuckles around whatever’s lodged in her throat. A bad breath or something. A little emotion. Of course her mom doesn’t have a lot of time; Annalise barely has enough time, and she’s the one having it. Maybe having it. “I gave up a long time ago. Now it’s here, and I have no idea what to do.” Keep the baby, and now she’s brought someone small and dependent into this awful web of theirs. She could move, pack up the house and the baby, go teach somewhere that the board of directors doesn’t hate her so much. Bonnie would probably follow her, but where does that leave the rest of the kids? And where does that leave Wes?

Ophelia’s grin comes through all the way to Annalise — crooked and hopeful — when she says, “You could always come home."

And that’s a picture right there, Annalise on her side of forty, rocking a newborn, while her mom hovers in the background giving tips on the right way to parent. Never in Annalise’s life will that be her. She might need help, but running to her mom? At her age?

“You’re joking.”

Ophelia hums on her end. “You know me. I talk. I’m just talking. It’s not like I don’t have the room over here. But you won’t need it.” She sounds sure of that, and something warm spreads in Annalise’s chest. “You’ll figure it out, baby. You always do.”

Annalise’s throat feels a little tight, so she settles for a nod and a reach for that bag of pretzels she left on the desk. She should get off the phone soon. She doesn’t have much time until everyone’s out of class, then they’ll be here and she can’t freely talk about something like this where they could overhear. No one can know yet. Not until she knows what she should do.

Then Ophelia opens her mouth again and says, “Now, tell Mama which one of these boys done knocked you up this time.”

Annalise groans and groans, but she smiles when she does it. Beams down at a handful of pretzels. Talks out the side of her mouth. “You did say that’s how it worked best. Guess you weren’t wrong.”

“Mamas rarely are. You’ll see.”

She will, won’t she?

.

.

.

**vii. or how Annalise spent her day hiding out**

Annalise sinks into the wall opposite the meeting room. Someone’s class president campaign poster flattens a bit under the weight of her purse, but they should have thought about the fact that the school moonlights as a place for AA meetings before they hung them up. Besides, better a poster be hurt than anyone else. There’s a whole room full of people in there waiting to expel their demons and share their horror stories, and honestly she chokes over what she’s supposed to share.

Hi, her name’s Annalise, and she’s barely been sober long enough to form replacement habits, but now she snacks in bathrooms and screws her students on weekdays. (The days are not the problem. The problem is the boy waiting for her to come home so they can be adults about this. The one who’s probably making dinner and flitting around to make the place more homey for the both of them. Just — great.)

Her name’s Annalise, and she reached a low that she never thought would honestly happen for her. She spent most of the latter part of her marriage resenting the fact that her husband cheated on her with students and his clients, so she vowed to not be that person. Never be the one who screws those that you’re meant to be helping. That’s how she and Sam started, and that’s when her life took a turn down a road that she thought was helping. She left Eve — the woman she’d been seeing at the time — and she wound up eventually having her own practice and a stellar reputation with clients and co-workers and students alike. Then she took the wrong case. (If she were saying this, her lips would probably pucker, and she’d nod to herself because that case really was the turning point, wasn’t it?) And a woman died. A little boy — Annalise's boy died. Another boy lost his mother, and the reasonable thing would have been to help him as people do. But Annalise has never been that reasonable. So she tried not to think about the only person who could recover after that shit show, up until he got on the waitlist for the school she taught at. And a voice that sounded remarkably like her mother’s told her to help him. Told her that if we can help and we don’t, then we’ve failed….

His name is Wes, and she has no idea how to look at him now. It was fine when the others were there. Easy to comparmentalize and see them all as one, but alone, the set of his jaw makes her fingers itch. Pulse to the point where she needs to busy them to keep from reaching out and tracing the length of the bone with her nails. Right under the chin, so they snag a bit against the stubble he hasn’t quite gotten rid of yet. He does a better job of shaving these days. Probably as a sign to himself and everyone else that they’ve moved on, that they really are good, stable people now who don’t shoot their professors or chop up bodies in the woods. They don’t cover up murders, and they certainly don’t wind up in any crime scenes except the ones that their clients have committed and confessed to.

Only, good people don’t hide outside of AA meetings instead of going home. Good people don’t have to rehearse what they’ll say to make sure they don’t say the wrong thing. Good people don’t ruin people’s lives and then fuck them into submission. (She might be dramatic in saying that last part, but honestly, with the way she’d rode him, his heavy sleep was well-earned.)

“Annalise?”

She jumps at the sound of her name. Scans the hallway before remembering the phone in her hand. Hoists it up in time to hear Eve ask for her again. She shouldn’t have called. She should never call or contact Eve again. Just leave the woman alone to be happy in San Francisco rather than roping her into whatever drama of the week that’s surrounding this town.

“You’ve gotta stop answering,” Annalise says in liue of greeting.

“Maybe one day I will.” But even as she says it, Eve chuckles. She sighs into her words. “What’s wrong, Annalise?”

Because something is always wrong out here. Something’s been wrong with her for as long as she’s been alive, and she only spreads it around like a cancer to everyone else. Infecting them until their bones become as brittle as their senses of self. Until they splinter and crack and the breaks form sparks that burn out anything else left inside of them. Until they’re hollow like Frank, or forever reaching like Bonnie, or whatever it is that she is. Maybe a bit of both. Hollow and constantly seeking a way to fill the void, or forget that it exists.

“Oh you know, same old, same old.” Annalise shifts, and the campaign poster crinkles some more. “I don’t think these meetings are helping."

“Are you sharing?”

Annalise shakes her head. “Too much I can’t explain.”

“Then you can’t blame the meetings,” Eve says. “That’s on you.”

“What exactly should I tell them? That I drink because everything in my life falls apart and no matter how much I help everyone, they still only see that their lives turned to hell the moment they met me?”

Eve clicks her tongue, and that must mean she’s visualizing the right course of action. Her eyelids probably fall shut, but her eyes still move, like she’s reading the future in the breaths that fall between the click of her tongue beneath her teeth. Then they pop back open, a new shine in them, and her head’s got that slight tilt up that means she knows she’s right. Then out with something brilliant.

“Fuck ‘em.” Eve breathes out a laugh, and Annalise joins her without a second thought. “Seriously, fuck anyone who doesn’t see what a goddamn honor it is to have their lives ruined by you. If they can’t see that you have an endless amount of love to give — don’t scoff, you do; I’ve felt it — then you just leave what ever, I don’t know, mounds of emotion you’ve hefted over to them and keep on moving. You care so much, Annalise, and too many people out here aren’t ready to accept that you’re fallible too. You stash all of your pain away so well that other people don’t know where to look for it. But there’s a few of us, a lucky few, who will find it and help you get through it.”

People who will look into her eyes and joke with her rather than forcing her to acknowledge what she’s admitted about herself. People who bring her pizzas and re-stock her refridgerator with the right sort of junk food that won’t make her hate herself immediately. People who pick up the phone no matter how many times she calls, knowing that she might not do the same.

“You’re mixing metaphors,” Annalise says.

“Then let me be clear. What happens to other people isn’t your fault. And if they come to you, broken and lost and seeking someone to blame, then it’s not on you either. Stop carrying the weight of the world when you’ve already got your own baggage. Sorry, another metaphor.”

“It’s fine. I’ve certainly got plenty of that.” But the baggage thing isn’t a bad way to look at it. She can’t be expected to carry whatever this might mean for Wes. She could add another layer to the suitcase of issues that she has about that boy, but she doesn’t need to worry about how he’s taking this. She doesn’t need to try and protect herself or him or the memory of goodness in a fair society because, honestly, she has too much going on to do anything else. Maybe another time, she can take another trip and pick up some more stuff, but for now? She’s already way over her free luggage limit and Jet Blue wants a whole case’s worth of fees just to let her check-in.

“And if you need help, getting through some of that stuff, you know where I am.”

In San Francisco, with someone who can love her without losing herself in the process.

“I do,” Annalise stands herself up, “but I should be fine. Call this a moment of weakness.”

“Call me for the next one?”

“Hopefully not. This time difference is ridiculous.” Annalise honestly shouldn’t even check what time it is over there. Probably dinner. Eve probably hasn’t even left her office yet, and she’s texted apologies to her girlfriend for taking so long at work when she’s really talking an ex down from a ledge. “I should go.”

And Annalise can hear Eve nod, hear the rustling of her clothes and the tightness of her throat. “You should. Take care of yourself.”

“And you do the same. I’ve got bad coffee and donuts waiting on the other side of this door. If I sneak in now, I might get one of the ones with frosting. Fingers crossed.” She does the motion and waits for Eve’s goodbye to click off the line.

She’ll go into the meeting and then head home. She’s been moving with her baggage long enough today.

Her phone buzzes towards the end of the meeting. Bonnie first.

**From Bonnie Winterbottom to Annalise Keating (10:19p)  
** // Wes is looking for you. He’s resorted to messaging me so I’m guessing something went wrong. Did he pee on the carpet?

Annalise rolls her eyes and lowers her phone’s brightness. Replies.

**From Annalise Keating to Bonnie Winterbottom (10:20p)  
** // I’m at a meeting  
// Bug me later

But her phone goes off with a text from Wes before she can stow it away again. She stares at the screen before clicking over to that conversation. No telling what sort of guy he is on the next day. He’d seemed casual enough in the morning, but he hadn’t had time to respond back then. He’d woken up to her just moving on, so he’d had to. But what if he couldn’t handle this being nothing? What if he expected more from her?

Not that she wouldn’t possibly be able to do more, or give more. She just needs time to process and figure out her actions. Wes might be a great guy, and he might have moved in with her, but that doesn’t mean she’s trying to have a kid husband. She’s not trying to keep him necessarily. She just doesn’t want an empty house. She wants some light, and he has plenty to spare.

**From Wes Gibbins to Annalise Keating (10:21p)  
** // I got more juice

See, plenty. Then her phone buzzes again, part two of his message.

// Hey, they’re doing maintenance at my building tomorrow, so I’ll probably head over there to let them in.

And her throat dries out a bit. Maybe he really can’t handle this. She should’ve stopped it last night. She should’ve never let him move in or get that close. Now she’ll lose him. That’s what’ll happen. He’ll take off, or get back with Meggy, or something. And he’ll be gone.

Fine, if he wants to go, then she should let him.

**From Annalise Keating to Wes Gibbins (10:22p)  
** // Alright. Be sure to lock up after yourself.

Easy, breezy, the sort of flippant response that says,  _sure, run away from what happened and we’ll just go on being normal_. She’s fine.

**From Wes Gibbins to Annalise Keating (10:23p)  
** // Of course.

Of course.

“Annalise?” Her name comes from the front of the room, and she flips her phone before looking to meet it. Another one of the alcoholics stares her down. “No phones in here. You know that.”

“Right. Sorry. Emergency. It’s off though. It’s—“ She shakes the phone with its black screen and slips it into her purse. “I’m present. Sorry. You were saying?”

The alcoholic’s neck vein throbs, but they talk through it. “I just made a lot of mistakes in my early recovery. Lashed out at people I should’ve cared for. I mean, I started using everything I could as a weapon, including sex.”

People hum in agreement, and Annalise pulls her bag up to her chest. She hadn’t used sex as a weaspon. Not with him. She’d voiced that too — if she knew exactly what last night had really been. Not a weapon, not a relapse, more like… letting go, like dunking under the wave instead of fighting it, like rolling her shoulders back and releasing everything she’d built up back there, like… like coming home after a long day to dinner smells and hums coming from the kitchen….

She can’t be casual about this, can she?

At least he won’t be home when she gets there.

.

.

.

**viii. or the next time they talk**

She sees him in the doorway from down the street. Her headlights brighten the whole damn porch, and there he is, endless body hunched over his bike while he tugs it on out of the apartment. He pulls the door closed behind him, locks it, and sighs out tot he street. No way to avoid talking at this point, not unless he fights his natural curioisity for once and manages not to look at the car heading his way. So she holds her breath as she drives closer and he finally glances her way.

He stares, and she stares, and he props the bike on the porch railing. She needs a plan of attack. Does she get out of the car and just go on in? Does she unlock the doors and let him climb in with her? Maybe she just nods as she goes her way and he goes his. Keep it simple, like they’re roommates and not everything else that they are to each other. That could work.

She pulls into the driveway. He doesn’t have the memo of course, so he stays there, standing on the porch. Her hand shakes when she puts the car in park and turns the engine off. Okay, they can talk outside. Low voices, not that anyone around here seems to pay attention to what she’s up to. A quick passing of thoughts, then she’ll drink some of that juice he bought and imagine it’s more bitter and alcoholic than it is.

He slips his hands in his pockets while he waits for her. But his eyes stay on the car. Almost like he’s waiting for her to turn around. It’s not like she could run anyway. It’s her house.

She gets a few steps his way before she decides to break the silence. Steer the conversation. “Maintenance, huh?”

He shrugs. “That’s what their emails tell me.” He scans the space around them, so points for being careful. “Annalise, I-I get it."

“Get what exactly?” Because she hardly understands how she feels right now, so he sure as shit can’t _get_  anything. Her purse pulls at the side of her dress. She’d have to shift to fix it, but he’d only read that as nerves, wouldn’t he? She’s not nervous. She’s just cold. Cold makes her shiver, not the way his eyes bore into hers.

“You and me, we’ve got a real good thing going here. I don’t want to mess that up. I don’t want that to change. So, if it’s what you want, then what we did —“ just inside the house, down the hall, in his room “— doesn’t have to happen again. I’d like it to, but I also wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He gives a small version of his usual grin, still lopsided but a bit more reserved. “And I’m not gonna lie, I really do like living here. I like coming home.” To her, that’s what his eyes say, that’s what the parting of his lips and deep swallow before he averts his eyes conveys.

She does fix her purse. Since he’s not looking. Since she needs something to do. “I like it too.” She clears her throat. “We can, uh, play it by ear. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I hear there’s juice.” It’s a peace offering, and his smile gets a little wider. Shoulders raise a little higher.

“Pink lemonade actually, but you’ll see.” He nods, then turns to grab his bike off the railing. “I’ll be back.” His voice lifts up at the end though, like he’s asking her permission. It’d be easier for the both of them if she just told him no. Told him not to bother and to stay at his apartment and play house with somebody else. But she’s too fargone for that at this point.

“Bring back some eggs when you do. Those ones’ll be gone by Friday.”

He nods again. Takes the steps with his bike and gets on it. “Will do. Night, Annalise.”

He used to just call her professor. Or stutter over his words when it came time to talk to her. He’d rush through scenarios and the whole world could see him run the numbers. And look at him now, grinning over at her before riding off into the night, like it’s nothing. Like it’s easy. And who knows, maybe with him, maybe it could be.

.

.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talk to me, please. about the finale, about this fic, about your hopes and dreams, just something.  
> (though, of course, thoughts on this fic are preferred, friends)


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